Portraits of a Lion and a Snake, Entwined
by newtypeshadow
Summary: Sketches and scenes of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy as they forge a life together. Each chapter is its own short sketch. slash
1. cabin vacation

title: **_cabin vacation_**  
author: newtypeshadow  
warnings: slash  
summary: Harry and Draco take a vacation.  
notes: I've been reading Hemingway for class; different writing styles are fun to play with. Anyway, comments and criticism appreciated. Dunno if this is done or not. Also, cooking help and food ideas would be nice.

* * *

* * *

When Draco sleeps, there's a half-second pause between the moment he breathes out, and the moment he breathes in again. Harry watches him sometimes, on mornings he rises first or on nights he cannot sleep. He watches with his heart lodged in his throat, afraid each exhalation will be the last, that the next pause will continue forever.

"Why do you always watch me sleep?" Draco asks one morning through a yawn.

Harry shrugs, rubs his eyes. "I can't help it."

Draco gives a sleepy leer: "You can't resist my sexy body even when I sleep, can you?"

"Of course," says Harry. His lover gives him a look, but leaves it at that.

* * *

The cabin has four rooms: a kitchen, a living room, a bedroom, a bathroom. Draco has explored them in minutes. His robes swirl imperiously around him as he strides the length of the cabin in a handful of steps, and paces back, peering into the bathroom as he goes. "Well, this is a fine setup."

"It's isolated. It's what we wanted."

"It's a hovel."

"It's fine enough." Harry frowns.

Draco rolls his eyes. "I'm hungry. I think I'll have Cuthbert's Custard with venison and maybe some spiced vegetables." He speaks as if ordering from a restaurant.

"Or the other way around," Harry says.

"Nonsense, dessert first is the best way to do it."

The brunet brushes very close when he steps past the blond and into the kitchen. He peers in the cabinets, the fridge with a plug that's lying on the floor and glowing faintly blue. "Actually, we might need to hold off on the custard."

"Why?"

"No house elf. I can make…peanut butter and jelly, if it wouldn't kill you to eat it." The brunet looks up from where he's bent half inside the refrigerator.

The blond looks crestfallen.

* * *

Draco wakes in the night with a start. The bed is too large; Harry has gone. A light slats in from the bathroom, and Draco goes there. He cracks open the door further.

Harry is standing naked by the sink drinking a vile of cerulean liquid. On the counter, the stopper lies on its side.

"Harry?"

Harry startles but quickly composes himself. "Draco, what are you doing up?"

"You weren't there."

"Oh. Sorry." The brunet shuffles toward his lover, whose eyes are blinking rapidly against the light, and wraps his arms around the thinner man. "Come back to bed," he says. He turns the light off and maneuvers them in a slide-stepping hug back to the bed.

Draco turns from the embrace and crawls back under the covers. "What's wrong?" he asks when the other head joins his on the solitary pillow.

"'S gonna rain."

"Oh. Want me to massage it for you?"

"No, it'll be fine."

Draco runs a hand down Harry's thigh anyway, working the muscle under the scar tissue. Harry sighs. Then he hisses, and Draco laughs.

"It's not funny," Harry says, and hisses again.

"Turning you on, am I?" Another, deeper chuckle.

Harry moans. Draco disappears under the blankets and the dark of the moonless night. For once, Harry lets his head fall back and his eyes shutter closed.

* * *

Draco leaves his dirty dishes on the table. He doesn't even take them to the sink. It annoys Harry to no end. "I said I'd never clean up after anyone else again, and I meant it," he informs Draco seriously. He is leaning against the divider between the kitchen and the living room. His arms are crossed across his broad chest. His green eyes are intense and angry.

Draco remains on the couch, staring into the fire. "I want to go home," he says.

"You're the one who wanted to leave in the first place."

"I know, but now I want to go home."

"So the house elves will clean up after you, you mean."

"No! I just…" Draco stands abruptly and goes to the kitchen. His dishes slide into the sink with a clatter. Back facing Draco, Harry winces at the sound. He catches his lover as he's rounding the table on his way back to the couch and holds him, back to chest. His chin rests on Draco's shoulder. His breath teases the long, white-blond hair. Draco shivers.

"Now, love, why do you want to go home?"

His lover motions helplessly at the cabin.

"Really?"

There's a long silence, in which Harry holds Draco and Draco leans back and relaxes into Harry. They emerge from the embrace a time later with contented smiles on their faces. They share a look. "It's just…time to go back. For me. I suppose," Draco says finally.

"I agree," Harry says.

They stay another day anyway, and leave the following morning, after the rain.

* * *

further note: This the first of a series of short-ish domestic H/D scenes that may or may not be related or in the same universe. 


	2. from town

title: **_from town  
_**author: newtypeshadow  
summary: Draco comes home from Diagon Alley.  
warnings: slash, language

* * *

"Fucking wizards!" Draco spat, throwing off his ash-covered cloak and stepping out of the fireplace. 

"You didn't Apparate in," Harry commented from over the Daily Prophet. He sat at the kitchen table. A cup of coffee sat with him.

"No, I didn't effing Apparate. I was too angry-thought I'd splinch myself." He un-knotted his scarf with jerky movements.

"What happened? I thought you were only going to Gringotts."

"I _was_ only going to Gringotts-and don't get me started on that-but that cursed _slag—_"

"Who?"

"Rita fucking Skeeter, that's who. She accosted me in the street and demanded I tell her how I killed my father, and what spell I'm using to keep you my willing sex toy or some such rubbish. I _hate_ that woman!"

Harry smirked. "I remember a time you loved to get your hands on her and whisper dirty things into her buggy little ears."

Draco frowned at him. "That was fourth year. Git. I wish muggles had burned her ancestors." He threw his scarf on the floor. A misshapen creature appeared, picked it up, and disappeared again.

Harry snorted. "What else happened? Gringotts…"

"Oh yes." Draco was in the kitchen now, puttering about, but at this he pulled up the chair beside Harry and sat. "The goblin wouldn't let me get into your account. The Daily Prophet sells out in thirty minutes with our faces on the cover, and the dirty little goblin doesn't have proof that, and I quote, 'you and Mr Potter are legally bound.' What more do they fucking need? _Everyone_ knows it! Parents make their children cross the street they're so afraid they'll grow up bent! I _hate_ goblins. I hate goblins, I hate wizards, I hate fucking Rita Skeeter, and I hate wizards."

"You said wizards twice."

"I meant to."

"We're wizards."

"I hate us, too."

"Yes, Draco."

Draco chuckled. "You're so well trained. Maybe I don't hate you."

Harry rolled his eyes and put down the paper. "That's a start."

Draco looked confused. "What?...What" An amused smile crossed his face, dipping into something decidedly darker. "You know, I'd hate you less if you were naked."

Harry laughed as though the sound surprised him.


	3. focus

title: **focus  
**author: newtypeshadow  
summary: Harry changes his clothes.  
notes: Beta-read by the heavensent CheeseDanish. Any and all remaining mistakes are mine, cos I tell you—she didn't miss anything. _Anything_.

* * *

When Draco comes into the bedroom Harry's tie is loose about his neck. His starched shirt is wrinkled. The top two buttons are undone. Harry's black outer robe is thrown precariously on the edge of the bed. 

"I didn't hear you get in," Draco says.

"Oh, sorry. I Apparated straight here—I hate this robe." He sits on the bed, lightly tossing the robe aside as he does. He bends to the floor and unlaces his shoes.

"How was the meeting?" Draco remembers to ask.

"You were right—it was a total waste." He crosses one leg, ankle to knee, and removes a shoe, a sock. "The new Minister had everything already planned out—wouldn't allow any changes in his plans whatsoever. I shouldn't have gone." He places the other shoe and sock on the floor and arranges them with a practiced air. "_Now _he's pissed at me for publicly disagreeing with him; there'll be trouble for us. Wouldn't be surprised if it's in the _Prophet _tomorrow." He stops, hands on his tie. "Bugger."

"What?"

"The _Prophet_. Last thing I need is more publicity. And the new Minister with it in for me, but serves him right. Probably thought I'd just sit there and smile. Can you believe he wanted to cut funding to veteran new-muggles trying to go to find muggle jobs?"

Draco's eyes widen. "What?"

"Well, he does." Harry removes his shirt and tosses it on the bed. It lands on top of the forest green tie. "Like they weren't wizards before the final battle. We owe them, and he wants to—to—to act like they don't exist! They need our help." Harry sighs. He cuts a defeated figure in his white undershirt and black slacks; hunched shoulders, hands hidden in his pockets. Harry shakes his head after a few silent moments. "We get the leaders we deserve, I suppose. I just wish…"

Draco blinked.

"Draco?"

"Hm? What?" His eyes snap up to Harry's face.

"Draco?" A corner of Harry's mouth turns up. "Have you heard a word I just said?"

"What? Of course." Indignant.

"Really. Why does he want to cut new-muggle funding?"

"Because…" Draco shifts on his feet. "Because muggle educations are so expensive?"

"I didn't tell you," Harry says triumphantly. "But that was one reason, actually."

"Hm. Sorry."

"Sure you are. You were watching me change, weren't you?"

"Well you're right _there_. Hard not to."

"You've got that guilty look in your eye. And your robe looks funny."

Draco shrugs. "I can't help it."

"I'd forgotten never to tell you important things while I'm changing. I still don't see what the big deal is."

Draco grins. "And I find that sexy."

"Right. That's not what you said the first time I undressed for you."

"You were nervous. It was sexy."

"So either way, watching me change is sexy."

Draco crosses his arms. He frowns. "Yes." He nods. "Yes. But only you," he adds.

"Really."

"No. But I'd prefer you, if it's all the same."

"I'll work on that."


	4. a path of Valentines

title: A Path of Valentines  
author: newtypeshadow  
warnings: slash, het, sexual implications  
summary: The first Valentines Day Harry goes all out. Afterwards, things are not so simple.

* * *

The first Valentines Day Harry goes all out. There are a dozen roses and a note left on the pillow for Draco to find when the blond wakes up; he serves Draco brunch in bed, which they don't leave until early evening; there is a surprise reservation at Draco's favorite restaurant, even though it's in public and Harry _hates_ being where paparazzi can see him; the musicians at the restaurant serenade their table—Draco specifically—and every patron's attention is on them for the rest of the evening. Draco loves it. Harry doesn't even mention any of his Gryffindor friends all day. When they return home, there is a chocolate everywhere. "Happy Valentine's Day," Harry says. 

Draco feels guilty for not having done anything. He'd thought, both being men, that the day would be spent like any other day. Because of this, he eats chocolate with Harry in front of the fire and tries to make it up to him the rest of the night.

The only reason Harry finds out at all that the chocolate was second-class and Draco had to choke it down, is because of an argument in May over dirty laundry that took on epic proportions. Draco apologizes profusely afterwards, and thinks that's the end of it.

* * *

The day before the second Valentine's Day, Draco is full of energy. He barely contains his anticipation. 

The next day there is nothing. "We're both men," Harry echoes. "Anyway, it's a silly holiday."

* * *

The third Valentine's Day Draco tries to make it up to his lover. They have mellowed somewhat, grown comfortable, though there is certainly still fire and the explosions of their conflicting personalities. After agonizing for weeks, Draco goes to Hermione—not such a bad witch, once you got past her husband—to seek advice. Hermione smiles devilishly when she finds out what he's come for. She puts on some half-moon glasses, pulls a potion book from her shelf, and hands it to him. 

Harry is pleased, to say the least. Draco is, too. Valentine's Day lasts the four days it takes for all the potions to run out.

* * *

The fourth Valentine's Day is ushered in by a week of little gifts, pranks, and tidbits of memory left in unexpected places. Draco hides a picture of the two kissing on the cover of _The_ _Daily Prophet_—their first kiss, ironically enough—in Harry's muggle shaving kit. 

Harry puts a rose with terrible, dry chocolate in Draco's favorite pair of shoes.

Draco sends an owl to accost Harry at work with gifts that, when unwrapped, become so large Harry cannot fit with them into the Ministry elevator.

Harry instructs the house elves not to clean for a day, and Draco develops an appreciation for the sight of Harry in an apron and socks.

When it finally comes, the fourth Valentine's Day has nothing particularly special about it, but that it is the culmination of the gifts-in-odd-places and out-of-season mistletoe. Though neither take the day off, both go to work the next morning with the untouchable high spirits of men finally home from a long vacation.


	5. Tanabata

title: Tanabata  
author: newtypeshadow  
rating: G  
summary: On a Japanese holiday, Draco writes a heartfelt wish.

* * *

Wizards these days didn't put enough stock in the old ways. Draco did. He had seen the way prayers were answered. He was wizard enough to know that every religion held its own grain of truth, and every saint carried a magic that lingered into the present. Sitting in the dark, dry dungeon room, candles lit and plants arranged just so, Draco stood hunched over the lone desk, writing.

His right hand held his left sleeve away from the paper weighted down by the edge of the heavy tome lying open before him. The brush in his hand dipped again in the bowl of fresh-made ink. The parchment he carefully filled with sure black strokes was rice paper imported from Japan, blessed by Shinto priests and further spelled by Draco himself upon its arrival. He would write upon this paper a prayer, as he had done on each paper now drying on the string hanging above his head. He did as he had done every day, praying to one saint or another, honoring one holiday and a thousand. His wish was always the same:

_Bring him back alive._

(He would not think of those who returned, floating between the mediwitches, anonymously covered in sheets.)

_Bring him back whole._

(Or of those who returned in pieces, the blessed ones dead or shells of themselves, the unlucky ones screaming and crying and coughing up blood.)

_Bring him back mine._

(Because he belonged to Draco. Whether he knew it or not, he always had. And when the war was over, he would belong only to Draco, and the world would know and accept.)

The gods knew of whom he wrote. They could see into dreams and speak through the mouths of crazy old biddies like Trelawney or regal beasts like Firenze.

Draco rested his hand on the open page of the tome lying on his desk. September 9th—the ninth day of the ninth month: Tanabata; Japanese. Underneath was written the tale of how the day became sacred for those hopeful wishers: a god married his daughter to a serious man, and both husband and wife stopped working to be with each other. The god grew angry and separated them, but his daughter's tears were so pitiful he granted her wish to be together with her husband for one day of the year. That day is Tanabata.

The day when wishes written lovingly, desperately, came true.

_Bring him back alive_, Draco wrote. It was his seventh sheet. _Bring him back whole_. This time he wrote in runes. _Bring him back mine_.

The gods knew of whom he wrote.

Surely one of them would honor his request.


	6. Their first kiss was at their bonding ce...

**title:** Their first kiss was at their bonding ceremony  
**author:** newtypeshadow  
**rating:** G  
**warnings:** slash (though I'm sure you've picked up on it by now  
**summary:** An official acknowledgment of what is.

* * *

Their first kiss was at their bonding ceremony. There was little fanfare, and the few people who came hadn't been expressly invited, just told of the occasion. The two men saw little reason to make a fuss—it was only a ceremony. They had already sworn to protect one another with their lives. They saw this as no different. They had grown comfortable together, Malfoy with his sense of humor more morbid than a boggart, Potter with his lopsided grin and jaded eyes. The two Unspeakables fit, and they both knew it. 

"Potter, let's get married," Malfoy said one day.

Potter nodded. "We should," he said.

Decisions on where to live were casually made over morning toast at the Manor or the Hollow. Rings were picked out over a series of lunch breaks. "Not those drapes," would be said one afternoon at the office, or "That chair might look good in the living room" while staking out a former Death Eater's home.

The bonding ceremony was a quiet affair, with the muted happiness of people simply acknowledging what was. As they turned to their witnesses, Malfoy squeezed Potter's hand. Potter squeezed back. "I love you," was in the tightening of their fingers, in the dig of matching rings.

* * *

**notes: **Inspired by my sister Nancy, who's getting married. 


	7. The Wall

**title:** The Wall  
**author:** newtypeshadow  
**rating:** PG  
**warnings:** none  
**summary:** Draco opens the Dark chamber under the drawing room floor for Auror inspection...

* * *

"Thank you for opening this up to us," Potter said. The Auror's wand was held confidently in his right hand. He stood beside his former classmate, Draco, who was seated, elbow on the armrest and chin in his hand. The ever present sneer had left the Slytherin graduate's face. It had been replaced by a sardonic smirk which, although devoid of the sneer's overt hostility, was no less dangerous for those on the other side of it. 

Draco peered down the stairs. "Oh, the Ministry'd have bungled their way in sooner or later. Best it was while I could supervise." The trap door lay open upon the rolled carpet. The drawing room furniture had been pushed into the bookcases on the far wall. "What are you doing up here? I thought you'd be the first one down."

Potter looked at Draco. "You knew I'd stay up with you."

Draco smiled mysteriously. "A man's entitled to his own opinions," was his only concession.

A scream from the torch-lit room below tore through the comfortable silence that stretched between the two men.

"What was that?" Potter fairly shouted. His voice accused Draco of all manner of things, murder the least of them.

Draco's smirked. "Seems like somebody stepped on the Sorcerer's Toes."

An Auror with dark blond hair came dashing up the stairs wailing in terror. His hands slapped along his body as if swatting at tiny creatures. His anguished screams got further and further away, echoing strangely in the large house as the man twisted and turned through the map in Draco's mind. He heard the front door open and saw the man dashing toward the road. Draco snorted.

Potter was livid. "What was that?" he shouted. "What happened down there?"

"Mergin stepped on the Sorcerer's Toes!" came another voice from below. "I thought these had all disappeared after the Goblin Wars! It's amazing, Potter! You've got to see this!"

Draco chuckled. Potter's anger grew. "Why," he began down the steps, "Didn't. You. Help. Him."

"Oh. Er…" The second Auror sounded flummoxed, sheepish. Draco couldn't make out the rest.

Potter returned. "Malfoy, you're leading."

"You seriously can't expect _me_ to go down there!" Draco protested. "Look at me!" Here his voice took on a bitter quality. He motioned to the chair on which he sat, useless legs bent at the knee and sitting nervelessly on footrests. "What do you plan to do, carry me?"

There was a flash of uncertainty, but it was quickly swallowed by Potter's resolve. "If I have to," he said.

"This isn't a war," Draco growled.

"No. It's not."

They glared at one another. Draco looked away first. "Fine." He pushed a button on the wheelchair. It rose a few inches off the ground. "Move," he ordered Potter, and pushed the lever that steered the chair forward. Potter barely got out of the way before Draco was making his careful way down the steep stair, bumping the sides on occasion and swearing at the scratching metal. He landed abruptly, chair jarring at the bottom. "Wanker," he muttered, pushing the button again and driving forward. He kept the chair at a hover, mindful of the Sorcerer's Toes.

The chamber was dark, the paths to the torches along the walls too dangerous to make the necessary journeys. The room was cluttered with shadowed objects filled to the brim with Dark magic: hands creeping up from pedestals, eyes in jars, feet encased in gold. Black wood carvings infused with blacker powers twisted up from shelves and from the floor.

"This place," Potter murmured behind him.

"You've seen worse," Draco said. Perhaps it was to be contrary, but perhaps it was only the truth. "I don't need to tell you not to touch anything…and watch your step."

"Oh!" he heard behind him. Potter'd found the Sorcerer's Toes, no doubt. "Jackson!" Potter scolded a bit later. Fool must have been about to touch something.

They had trekked almost to the end of the long chamber—it went as far back as the west wing of the Manor—when Draco suddenly stopped.

"Keep going," Potter ordered.

"Can't," Draco ground out.

"Why not?"

"I bloody _can't_, alright?" He motioned savagely to the chair in which he sat.

It was then Potter noticed the wheels, too wide to fit between the final shelves barring the way. Potter wondered if he should move them, but decided against it. "Jackson, you go ahead. Malfoy, come back a bit."

With a bit of shuffling, a dangerous moment when the wheel bumped one of the shelves, and Draco's accusation of sexual assault of an invalid when Jackson sat in his lap while climbing over, the switch was made.

"Blimey," Jackson said, walking into the only bare section of the room. "Why do you suppose this bit's empty? Ran out of money, did th—"

Suddenly there was another wall, and Jackson was trapped on the other side of it. Muffled beating and shouts could be heard from the newly appeared wall, upon which were posed pictures of Malfoy relatives, most of whom Draco had never seen before.

"Well," Draco said. "I'd hoped that wasn't what this was."

Potter maneuvered around Draco with all the trouble of Jackson, but without the witty commentary. "Potter," was the complaint instead.

"My man is trapped behind that wall, and you'd bloody well get him out, Malfoy!" Potter shouted. He gestured madly with his wand at the far wall.

"Careful with that thing," Draco said, slowly withdrawing his own wand from a fold in the his left trouser leg. "You know what happens when wizards get angry."

"Angry? I'm going to _kill_ you if you don't get him out of there!"

The banging on the wall continued. A painting of Narcissa Malfoy shuddered. "Who's making that racket?" she asked, and crossed over into a different painting. "That's better."

Draco smiled. "Hello, mum," he said, ignoring Potter's empty threat.

"Hello darling!" she waved daintily. "Come talk to me!"

Draco couldn't, of course. There was a twinge in his chest, but it passed quickly. "Kiss me," he said instead to Potter.

"What?" Potter was livid. His face was cherry red.

"Kiss me," Draco said again. "It's the only way to get him out. If you want him out, that is."

"You're lying!"

"I'm not." The smirk was back now, teasing, daring. "What—don't you believe me?"

"Why should I b—Malfoy!" After a frantic period of looking at everything and seeing nothing, of frenetic movement of head and hands, Potter slumped. "Draco," he pleaded.

"Harry," Draco whined mockingly. "Kiss me," he said again.

Potter sighed. "Fine," he said. "But you'd better not be lying." There was little power in this threat, and they both knew it.

The Auror leaned over Draco, bracing his hands on the arms of the chair. Draco dropped his wand into his lap. He slid his hands over Potter's neck and into his hair, guiding him. They kissed softly, once, again.

When Potter's eyes fluttered open, Draco was smiling at him. Behind them, the wall crumbled. Neither turned to look.


	8. fight

**title:** fight  
**author:** newtypeshadow  
**rating:** G  
**warnings:** angst  
**summary:** Draco and Harry fight.  
**notes:** Inspired by listening to Incubus, _Megalomaniac_, though I'd wanted to write a fight for some time.

* * *

A blond man sits on a comfortable green sofa facing a fireplace. But for a window somewhere off-screen, the merrily crackling fire is the only light in the room. The man is staring at a newspaper headline: POTTER TO TESTIFY AT MALFOY TRIAL!

The man folds the paper and casts it aside. It slides on the small table beside the couch and comes to a precarious stop on one hexagonal edge. The headline's moving picture is of a blond man who looks eerily familiar. He is being escorted somewhere by two men in black robes. Though he wears the look of one used to special treatment in the prideful slant of his eyebrows, the man himself is bedraggled.

The blond sitting on the couch puts his head in one hand. He is quiet. He is still.

From outside the slowly darkening room there sounds a pop! and a thump. Someone has Apparated in. The blond suddenly removes his hand and sits up straight. He slumps into the couch, affecting nonchalance.

"Draco," mouths the man coming in, though we cannot hear it. He casually tosses his robe onto the armchair beside the couch and goes to the blond man.

The blond man speaks, though we cannot see his mouth. The man who came in stops short: he has seen the newspaper folded on its side. His mouth opens but nothing comes out of it. He looks sad and pathetic with his messy brown hair, glasses askew and taped in the middle, broad shoulders out of place on his wiry body. The name is mouthed again, "Draco," but the man on the couch ignores it and crosses his arms.

He turns his head to the side and spits a name, "Potter," and words pour from his mouth faster than can be read. He stands and paces.

The word "father" is shouted.

Things start shaking, though no wands are present. A red light glows from the blond's body and fingertips. The brunet puts out a hand in supplication, but there is nothing for it. Words are slung back and forth like rocks. China breaks on the mantle and bookends leap from the shelves and crack upon the floor where there is no rug to catch them.

Then the brunet says "monster" and everything stops. For a moment everything is perfectly still. Then objects are leaping into the blond's hands, and he hurls them himself: a vase full of fresh flowers, a statuette of a griffin entwined with a snake, a box of jewelry, the newspaper. The blond's hair is wild and his face is blotched white and red. The angry scowl on his face would seem etched in stone but for the rapid movement of his red, red mouth.

The brunet dodges with natural magic and raised arms, inching forward with each thing thrown as books leap from the shelves behind him to hurl themselves at his back. Finally he grabs the blond's arms and twists him around. The blond winces in pain, but never stops fighting. The brunet kicks the blond's legs out from under him. Both fall to the floor. They scrabble for dominance, rolling into a coffee table and the couch, bloodying their hands on furniture and fingernails.

The brunet winds up straddling the blond's chest. He holds the blond's wrists over his head. The blond's face is streaked with tears. He is crying so heavily his words are unintelligible from his sobs.

The brunet leans over him, bringing his mouth so close their lips almost touch. He is talking softly. Perhaps he is apologizing, perhaps he is making excuses, perhaps he is saying the cruelest of things. The blond fights him off futilely and then gives up, wilting into the floor like a flower crushed for its fragrance.

The brunet puts his face into the blond's neck and just breathes. They remain this way for silent minutes.

Then the brunet stands, draws his cloak over his arm, and, looking back one last time, walks out of the room.

Like a bird breathing its last, the man on the floor curls up into a shuddering ball. He stills. He shakes. He cries.


	9. naked baby!

**title:** naked baby!  
**author:** newtypeshadow  
**rating:** G  
**summary:** There's a naked baby on the loose in the Potter/Malfoy house.  
**notes:** giftfic for mintapotter. hope it lives up to your parentfic expectations!  
also: wherever you see elipses (...), mentally replace with a double dash.

* * *

A wet, naked toddler came dashing into the room. 

"Naked baby!" cried Draco, throwing open his arms.

The baby dashed right past him to hide behind his back, giggling all the while.

It was the giggles that gave the child away to the damp, tired parent that came stumbling in a moment later. "Draco, where's...oh, there she is." He sagged, towel dragging on the ground. Water dripped from the shaggy black locks that had been pulled loose from the messy ponytail. His glasses were smeared with soapy water and child-sized fingerprints. His muggle t-shirt was a giant wet spot across his chest.

Draco laughed in sympathy. "Got you good, did she? Got you...good!" Suddenly he reached around and grabbed the slippery little darling, standing as he did and tossing her high as he dared. She squealed with delight. He caught her in his arms and spun in a circle. "Didn't you?" he grinned.

His daughter gave a wide, gummy smile back, single tooth bright and comic in her pink mouth.

Harry shook his head. "Who knew you'd be so good with kids?" he said, opening the towel.

Draco placed the squirming fourteen-month-old into the plush royal purple fabric. Then Harry's arms snapped around the youngest Malfoy and the towel swallowed her whole.

Inside the lumpy purple tower came the sound of tinkling laughter. Harry rubbed the towel vigorously around the little girl, making funny sounds as he did, then allowed her to poke her frizzy blonde head out. Baby-fine curls stuck out every which way. She held up her arms and made an English-sounding word. Draco lifted her out of the towel and into a hug. "Have you got her clothes?" he asked, shifting Lily onto his hip. He was already reaching for a nappie and the lotion.

"No. I'll get them now." Harry dried his shirt with a wave of his hand and _Accio_ed his wand. It zoomed in from the upstairs bathroom. "_Accio_ bottle!" he said. It flew in like a shot. Harry reached for it...and Draco caught it. They shared a grin. Draco proudly jutted his chin.

Lily tried to poke out Draco's eye.

Harry laughed his way to the bedroom. "Serves you right," he called back.

Draco muttered gibberish at him; it wasn't safe to curse around the baby; who knew what she'd pick up?

Harry returned shortly to find the towel spread on the carpet with a dry, happy baby in the middle. She was sucking contentedly on her bottle and, for the most part, staying still. Draco looked up from pinning the nappie. "Oh, not those. The green pair."

Harry shook his head. "_I_ get the clothes, _I_ choose the color." He gleefully put down the red jumper with gold pants. Draco sniffed delicately. "Your taste is offensive." Below him, the baby dropped the bottle and crinkled her nose, peering intently at Draco. Draco absently put the bottle back in her pudgy hands. "And you're offending Lily. Take them back."

"She's imitating _you_, you twa...it."

"Language!" Draco frowned at Harry, who looked contrite.

"I know."

"Clothes." Draco pointed imperiously at the bedroom, his other hand busy holding down the baby trying to roll to her feet while still drinking.

Harry smirked. "They're right here." He tossed forward the red and gold outfit. "If you don't like it, _you_ give her a bath next time."

Draco paled. "Me?" he squeaked.

"You."

Draco fumed. "Fine. Give me her clothes."

After they got the gold pants on her chubby bottom, Lily threw the bottle and got away. After that, it's just a naked baby chase.

* * *

further note: 'After that, it's just a car chase.' is from Neal Stephenson's book _Snow Crash_. i blatantly stole it. 


	10. piercing the surface

**title: **piercing the surface  
**author:** newtypeshadow  
**rating:** PG  
**warnings:** language (once), mpreg (in a sense...)  
**summary:** Harry and Draco have a child.  
**notes:** This, like all others in _Portraits_, is its own story, unrelated to any other _Portrait_ you may have read. And please don't knock this mpreg till you've read itI don't think it'll squick you a bit.

* * *

They draw straws. 

Harry loses.

He takes the potion at sundown. By morning his insides feel raw and abused.

"I feel like a piece of meat," Draco says, lying naked on his back.

Harry nearly says "fuck you," but thinks better of it. There is blood on his side of the bed; the potion always starts you off a virgin. Harry shoves his husband over and cuddles into his side, breathing hard.

* * *

"It's not working," Harry complains one morning. 

"How do you know?"

"It's obvious! _Look_ at me! It'll never work!"

Draco moves to sit beside him. "It will," he says. "It will." They have tried five times, and five mornings after Harry woke up a man. Harry is beginning to resent his body. Draco hates those mornings when Harry locks himself in the bathroom and breaks things, or is so silent it makes Draco want to cry. Draco spends those mornings playing the optimist, sitting outside the bathroom door, waiting.

* * *

The morning Harry wakes up still a woman, he is so elated he forgets how strangely off he feels walking about with two lumps on his chest it ached to grow the night before; without the comfortable dangle between his legs. 

He realizes shortly after bounding down the stairs, however, that more than just maternity clothes will be in order.

Harry has the house elf bring them breakfast in bed. Draco is still asleep. Harry wants to see the shock and delight on Draco's face when he opens his eyes to find muffins and scones served by a sexy wife.

* * *

Harry's emotions are haywire. His body is perpetually off-balance. He is always nauseated, like he's just stepped out of the floo. He spends most of his time in the bathroom. His new lover is made of white porcelain; their kisses are horks and dry heaves; their embraces are cool and bitter. When Harry isn't throwing up or sitting or eating, he is going to the bathroom to pee...for two. 

"I wish she wouldn't kick so hard," he calls thickly from his latest turn in the bathroom.

"Can't be helped. At least she's healthy," Draco replies. He is turning down the sheets. "Want a massage?"

Harry's been complaining of back pain for the past few days. Draco (secretly, of course) ran to Pansy at the first opportunity. "What do I do? Is this normal?" he'd asked frantically.

"Don't you read the pregnancy pamphlets?"

Draco had sneered, but soon enough he nodded. "But Harry's pregnancy isn't _like_ those. He's a bloke, really."

"Not right now he isn't," Pansy had said. "Here." She stood against him and put her arms behind her head and around his neck. "Now, put your hands..."

"...around my neck and...stand on the step there, you're too tall," Draco says. Harry does as he's told, mumbling questions all the while. The smile on his lips sags into a blissful expression as Draco's hands work wonders on his aching lower back.

"Ahhh..."

* * *

Harry doesn't want anesthetics or potions. He thinks his quidditch injuries have sufficiently prepared him for labor. 

They haven't.

Knives plunge into his lower back. Everything is pain.

When the baby is born Harry is so relieved he doesn't ask to hold his daughter, just reaches out weakly and sobs and breathes.

"It really _is_ a girl," Draco whispers, sliding an arm around Harry's trembling shoulders. The mediwitch hands Harry their child.

Harry thought he had felt love before he looked into baby Lily's eyes, squinted from crying and her shrill, healthy screams. Smiling down at her little face, Harry realizes he had only scratched the surface.


	11. a bedroom scene

portraits - a bedroom scene  
author: newtypeshadow  
rating: G  
summary: a quiet moment

* * *

Harry was asleep on his stomach when the light woke him. He heard a rustling from somewhere at the foot of the bed, and then Draco came into view, his face gaunt in the dim light.

"How was it?" Harry mumbled into the pillow.

Draco slid an arm around his waist and crawled into the foot of space between Harry and a hard knock on the floor. The brunet shifted a bit to accommodate his lover and hummed his question again.

"Oh, the party?" The blond buried his head between Harry's shoulder blades. "Well, I met the Wyrd Sisters..."

"That's excellent!" Harry's eyelids were growing heavy again.

"And the Minister asked if you were sick."

"I hope you lied to him."

"Of course I did. Told him you caught something."

"Wind of his party, more like."

Draco snuffled a laugh into Harry's bare skin.

Silence.

Draco's stomach rose and fell comfortably against Harry's back. The blond's hand went slack. Outside it was dark and starry. "How were the Sisters? Nice, I hope."

"...They were good fun...a bit flighty, the youngest was."

"Mm." More silence. Harry turned his head with effort. Draco was a blond sweep growing from his left shoulder. "Draco?" He shifted his shoulder when he got no answer.

"What?"

"Hadn't you better change? Come to bed?"

"...I _am_ in bed." As if to prove it, he clasped Harry tighter round the waist. Harry sighed and asked again.

"Draco." The brunet wiggled purposefully. His lover groaned. "Change your clothes. You'll get your nice robes wrinkled."

"But I'm so comfortable," he whined into Harry's neck.

Thirty minutes later Draco still hadn't budged. "I think I'll just sleep here," he said at length, and crawled under the covers.

Harry smiled. His arm was falling asleep under the pillow, Draco's snores were sounding right beneath his ear, and the Boy Who Lived really couldn't imagine being happier.


	12. Potter in Slytherin Green

title: Potter in Slytherin Green  
author: newtypeshadow  
disclaimer: Harry Potter, its characters, and settings, belong to J.K. Rowling. I am not J.K. Rowling.  
rating: PG-13  
warnings: language, sexuality, slash  
summary: Draco ponders his future...with Potter.  
notes: While listening to the song _Lover I Don't Have to Love_ by Bright Eyes. Excellent song!

* * *

Draco hated being in love, even if it gave him a focus for his hatred. Love was so humiliating! He'd seen the way Blaise went out of his way to walk that Ravenclaw girl to class, seen him leaving his room in the guise of Harry Potter just so she could fuck a legend. It was horrid—and he'd been the one Blaise asked to steal Potter's hair just so he could do it. Well, the scrap they'd gotten into made it worth it in Draco's opinion—hadn't Potter had to go to the infirmary?—but all the same, seeing Potter in Slytherin green made something inside of Draco twist in a way it shouldn't.

And _that_ was humiliating.

Draco'd been the one to make the potion, and that night, after Zabini left, he changed into Potter himself. He wanted to see if Potter's locker room denials were really true, wanted to see what places on Potter hurt the worst, wanted to see what it was like to have the perfect body to fly. Yet when he transformed, he couldn't do anything but touch himself, tease and test and stare at his reflection in the prefect bathroom mirror.

It was horrible. Draco _wanted_ to see that face in the mirror, its lopsided glasses and rugged grin, its stupid green eyes and unkempt black hair (which Draco couldn't tame no matter what spells he used, by the by. It was something to think about: if he ever _did_ pursue Potter, he could never be seen in public with him unless he bought Potter a wardrobe to take eyes off of Potter's hair.). He wanted to see it beside his own. Before Blaise left he'd asked him to stand at the mirror with him. Potter's eyes looked sadly back at his through the glass. After Blaise left, the mirror said what a fine couple they made. It made him feel worse.

Draco wished he could be more like his father. His father loved his mother in his own way, but Draco was old enough to recognize that there was no passion or affection in their marriage. They'd had one child because they must. He felt that acutely. He knew his father and mother both had affairs outside the marriage. Draco wanted a marriage like that, a place to come home to when all the casual flings were properly cast aside. But Potter wouldn't want that, Draco felt that too. And Draco knew that as much as he hated Potter, he...desired him...enough to want that for him.

After the Polyjuice wore off, Draco left the bathroom in a mood. He went to the quidditch pitch and flew around even though it was past curfew. He didn't know if night flying was fine for prefects, but he didn't care if he got detention for this. He thought about Potter, about their life together, about all the lovers he would have on the side and how that would twist inside Potter like a spell. He thought about the day Potter would leave him, and how he wouldn't cry until Potter was out of the Manor for good. He thought about all the lovers he wouldn't have to love that would come after, and how hollow they would make him feel.

Draco could never be like his father, he realized then. Not if he wanted Potter, too.


	13. family portrait

title: family portrait  
author: newtypeshadow  
disclaimer: Harry Potter and its characters and settings belong to J.K. Rowling. She and I are far from the same person.  
rating: PG  
summary: Raising Draco's headstrong son is hazardous to Harry's health.

* * *

"Why do you always introduce me as your _son_?" Lucien slammed the front door shut behind him, barely missing Harry. The frustrated hero shrugged off his formal roves and folded them over his arm, trying to be calm.

"Because you _are_ my son."

Lucien whirled on him. "_You_ are not my father. Draco Malfoy is my father, and I hate it when you pretend that's not true!"

Harry sighed. "Lucien, you're seventeen years old. Surely you know by now that I'm not trying to take his place."

"But you _are_. Merlin, you're so infuriating!"

Harry closed his eyes and began to count to ten. He could feel a headache coming on.

"I'm sodding _leaving_. Do you hear me? Do you even care?"

…4…5…6…. "Lucien—"

"Don't look away from me!" It was the last thing Harry heard before he felt the air around him become full and dark, and everything went black.

* * *

"Oh Merlin I don't know what to do, I don't know—" 

"What. Happened."

"Oh gods I killed him he's not moving—"

"Who. Isn't. Moving."

"_Dad_!"

The man in the portrait sat down suddenly. "Harry?" His voice broke.

Tears leaked from Lucien's reddening blue eyes. His black hair was a mess from pulling at it.

"Harry?" The blond man in the portrait said again. Lucien nodded. His mouth twisted down at the corners. "Go get him. Now. Be careful—" But Lucien was already rushing out of the dark Manor attic and down the stairs with tripping thuds and thumps.

An eternity later, Harry Potter was being lowered with the glowing tip of Lucien Malfoy's wand. "I…I thought he was invincible," Lucien mumbled.

"It's not your fault."

Lucien was awkwardly touching Harry's face. "It is. I shouldn't've…I just couldn't help it. I was so mad, and then I wanted to hit him…"

"Calm down, he's a wizard. I'm sure he'll come round soon enough. He's taken much worse knocks than an angry boy." Lucien sniffled in response. "Listen, you've got to learn to control your temper. You're much too powerful to still be having these outbursts."

"I know."

"Remember when you accidentally threw Harry out the window when you were—"

"I know." His hands tightened on Harry's arm.

"You've got the entire Malfoy bloodline behind you—"

"I _know_!"

"—and the bloodlines of Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort in your veins."

Lucien stopped. Coughed. "What?"

"Harry is as much your father as I am, Lucien. Pansy was only a surrogate—"

"Draco?"

"Harry!" "Harry!" "Ouch! Don't—" "Sorry…Dad."

Harry froze. "You…what?" He turned to the portrait. "Draco? What…you're…how long have you been up here?"

"Since it was painted," Lucien answered guiltily.

"When—"

"A month before the Kiss."

Harry gasped. He blinked rapidly and slowly sat up. "A month?"

"Yes. I'm sorry I never mentioned this portrait in my will, but it was such a spur of the moment thing, and then I didn't like how my outfit turned out, and—"

"You stuck it in the attic and forgot about it." Harry nodded, smirking slightly.

"I found it in second year," Lucien admitted. "I didn't tell you because…er…"

"I told him not to." Draco looked contrite. "I was afraid to face you. I didn't want to…to hold you back."

"You never—"

"You're too loyal, Harry! You should've married by now, had another child, not…not raised a son by yourself you didn't even know was yours!"

Draco expected shock. He didn't get it. "I knew."

"How?"

"Pansy sent me a letter a few years ago. After I told the Prophet he was my son as much as yours. She thought I deserved to know the truth."

"Oh."

"You knew I was your son?"

"Since…for three years."

"And you never told me?"

"I didn't think Draco wanted you to know. Or me. I wanted to honor his wishes, at least until I died."

Lucien shot to his feet. "What if I'd killed you today, what then?"

"Lucien, sit down," Harry said tiredly. "Talk to your father. Er, your…you know…Draco. This is his last day up in the attic. Tomorrow he'll be in my bedroom."

Lucien gagged. "Gross, Har—Dad."

"What?" Harry's wide green eyes looked entirely innocent. "That's where our family portrait is."

"…Oh."

Draco snickered. "You forget he's a teenager. Honestly, how have you managed this far?"

Harry grinned. "Not very well, I'll wager." He winked at their son.

It coaxed a grin out of Lucien. "You've done well enough. I mean, you got _me_, didn't you?"


	14. interesting

title: interesting  
author: newtypeshadow  
disclaimer: Harry Potter, its characters, and settings are the property of J.K. Rowling, who is not myself.  
rating: G  
summary: Draco notices something...interesting...about Potter.

* * *

The school was a gilded cage of magic. Its grounds were filled with the tantalizing fragrance of rose and honeysuckle, the heavy air drifting lazily in from over the lake, and the pine-scented breeze crackling electrically from the Forbidden Forest. Draco was enjoying the lovely weather, just on the cusp of summer and reminding the itching students they would soon be free of their schoolwork ills. Outside, Draco stretched on the open lawn and ripped tufts of grass from the soft ground. They fluttered from his fingers on the light breeze. It was a beautiful day and nothing could ruin his mood.

Draco's sun-warmed skin was suddenly cold. A shadow crossed in front of his closed eyelids. He opened them to find Potter staring down at him. "What do you want, Potter? Can't you see I'm trying to enjoy myself?"

Potter's mouth opened and closed. He went away.

Draco smiled and closed his eyes again.

When Draco rose to go inside it was nearing dark. The sun stained the sky with watercolor brilliance. Draco looked up at Hogwarts, wishing he were home, and saw someone staring back at him from a window in Gryffindor Tower.

It was Potter.

* * *

Potter was staring at him from across the great hall. Draco's plate was piled high with mutton that suddenly tasted like cardboard in his mouth. His stomach gave a little flutter. Why was Potter staring at him? Did he have something on his face? Draco took a sip of his drink and surreptitiously wiped his chin when he was through. There was nothing on it. When he looked up again, Potter was blushing and looking down at his plate.

Interesting.

* * *

In Potions Potter was surprisingly docile. He didn't once mention how much he hated Draco or slide over in his seat to talk to the Weasel. He didn't even mess up the potion, which made Draco think he might actually have studied ahead—surprising, seeing as he'd known for a week he and Draco would be partners on this project, and whoever was partnered with Draco was guaranteed to have their potion turn out right.

Still, it pleased him that Potter was at least _trying_…even if his hands shook whenever Draco handed him things to slice. Draco made sure to hand him every ingredient he needed. It was worth it to see the little tremor, the red that appeared on the back of Potter's neck.

* * *

The quidditch boys' locker room was full of young men changing in and out of gear. Slytherin practice had just ended and Gryffindors were taking over the field. Potter straggled behind the rest going out the door. Draco hid his smile with his shirt as he pulled it over his head. It came off in a sticky rush. Draco felt the sweat still clinging to his chest and back, felt his hair sticking to the back of his neck and the sides of his face. He looked up at the Gryffindor standing frozen in the doorway…and winked.

* * *

Draco was sprawled out on the grass by the lake. His eyes were closed. He was waiting.

Finally the expected party came, though he doubted Potter knew Draco could predict his awkward fumblings as if it were child's play. Potter was going to kiss him today. Draco could feel it in his bones.

"Why are you blocking my sunlight?" Draco asked when the familiar shadow crossed over his eyes. He heard the grass beside him bend and shift, heard the robed figure beside him sit down. Draco didn't open his eyes.

"Sorry," came Potter's voice. "I just…I have something to say. And I'm going to."

"So get on with it." Draco bent up on his elbows and opened his eyes. Potter's hair was messy over his scar, which was white against his ruddy skin. His classes were taped in the middle and not the right shape for his face. His upper lip had a crook on the left side that made it slightly bigger than its mirror. Still, the sight sent shivers down Draco's spine. He held them in, anticipating.

"I…I fancy blokes."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Does Weasley know?"

"Of course not! Er…no." Potter blushed. Draco drank in the color as if by gazing at Potter's cheeks, he could absorb the feel and texture of that color with his hands.

A feral smile lit the Slytherin's face. "So…why do you want me to know this, Potter? Come to tell me you fancy me?"

Draco waited. Potter twitched. "What if I said yes?"

"Are you telling me that's what you came for?" Draco felt laughter bubbling in his throat. He held it in.

Potter paused. His eyebrows furrowed and he pursed his lips into a thin red line. "Yes," he admitted at length.

Draco let his laughter loose. He crooked a finger at Potter as the boy rose angrily to his feet. "Wait a minute, Potter."

"I won't stay here and be mocked." Potter cut a malevolent figure for a moment before he became plain Potter again. Draco wondered why he bothered.

"Come back down here a sec. I want to tell you something." Draco waited. Potter glared at him…and grudgingly sat down again.

"Closer."

Potter bent close, unconsciously licking his lips.

Draco reached up and snatched Potter's head. He kissed Potter once on the forehead and once on the lips. "Alright, I accept," he informed Potter crisply, and went back to sprawling on the grass.

"Wait," Potter sputtered, "accept what?"

"I'll date you. There, aren't you happy? You got what you came for."

There was no movement, no sound.

Then Potter was blocking his sunlight and lips were on his, a slick tongue sliding into his mouth. Draco smiled and pulled Potter on top of him.

He wondered who in Gryffindor was watching them now.


	15. Bad Faith

title: Bad Faith  
author: newtypeshadow  
disclaimer: Harry Potter and its associated characters are the property of J.K. Rowling.  
rating: PG-13 (sexuality)  
notes: club based on club VIP Room in St. Tropez and Cannes.

* * *

His mission was done, the Dark Artifact safely in the Ministry corridor he'd dreamed of often in fifth year, and now visited weekly as an Unspeakable. Harry returned home dejected, tired, and feeling twice his age. He didn't want to go to bed in his empty house though, he thought with renewed sadness. Climbing into the shower, he decided just as the first warm jet of water splashed his face: if he wasn't asleep in an hour, he'd go to Bad Faith.

Bad Faith was a new club in muggle London for muggles and wizards—not that the muggles knew who they were partying with. It was large, one level but wide inside, with raised platforms and sitting areas for VIPs, and a giant turntable in the center facing the DJ for dancing. After tossing and turning in a too-big, too-empty bed, counting the seconds in sheep and the minutes in the blinking red of the clock, it was decided. Harry Potter whipped off the blanket and sat up straight.

It was past time to go.

The crowd to get in filled the avenue, but as soon as Harry pushed up to the front, the bouncers let him in. He nodded politely to them and walked down the red carpet and in through the large archway. The same thing happened in the VIP section. People introduced their friends to him and tried to take his picture. Strangers motioned him over to their couches. Waitresses brought him complementary drinks. After the third, Harry pushed his glasses up his nose and grinned.

There was a pole on a platform at the front of the VIP section.

* * *

The techno base was pumping, the strobe lights were dancing faster than the crowd on the floor and turnstile, the DJ was milking the club goers for all they were worth, and Draco Malfoy was on the balcony over his club with a satisfied smirk on his thin, pale face.

A man in a black suit rushed up to him and yelled something above the heavy base. Draco turned to him in surprise. "Where?"

The wizard pointed to a lithe brunet dancing quite suggestively with a pole. Half the VIP section had turned from the DJ to watch. A blonde girl was even climbing over the couch to join him.

Draco grinned ferally, nodded to the attractive wizard, and headed downstairs.

* * *

The blonde finally dropped back into the VIP section, leaving Harry to dance. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest—or perhaps that was the music thundering in his ears. The pole was cool against his sweaty hands, hard against his back, his thighs. Harry spun and shimmied down, playing coy with the hands trying to touch his feet and blushing at the occasional pound waved in a fist. Suddenly a hand crept down his stomach. Harry turned, back sliding up the pole, and faced his new partner. A handsome blond man with steel grey eyes and a confident smirk reached around him and wrapped his hands around the pole, trapping him.

The brunet grinned, grabbed the blond's hips, and ground into them.

"Come here often?" the man shouted into his ear over the techno. Harry shook his head and wrapped an arm around the blond's shoulder. "What's your name, love?"

"Harry. And you are?"

The blond pressed Harry hard against the pole. The music stopped. The crowd screamed. "Draco Malfoy, at your service," he whispered, and sucked on Harry's earlobe.

The techno started again. Harry slid his hand down the blond's deep green silk shirt and down to his chest. He pushed. Ducking out of the man's arms, he spun around to the opposite side of the pole, leaned in, and hooked a leg around it. The music throbbed into his thigh.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Draco asked.

Harry dipped back and came up grinning. Head rush.

"It's not bad. Not my scene, really, but it's good for what it is."

Draco raised an eyebrow. Harry grinned coyly at him and hooked his hands into the man's belt loops. He tugged.

Draco came.

"What _is_ your scene?" the club owner asked.

Harry shimmied between Draco and the pole. Sliding up Draco's hard body with a shy smile, he replied, "A quiet night at home."

The blond man grinned softly. "I think I can help with that. Give me five minutes." With a parting kiss, he drifted back down into the VIP section and out into the club.

* * *

"What possessed you to brave Bad Faith tonight?" Draco let the door slide shut behind him and put his cloak on the rack.

Harry tossed him his own cloak and trudged wearily down the dark hallway. "The house was empty."

"Empty, was it?" the blond drawled, hanging it up. "Well, in my defense, I didn't expect you to return quite this early, so I decided to hop over and keep everyone on their toes."

"I didn't expect it to be so easy."

The light in the bedroom went on. Draco followed it to find Harry unbuttoning his shirt in the walk-in closet. "Well if braving Dark Artifacts was so easy, what is it about an empty house that scared you into getting tipsy at my club on the off chance that I'd notice?"

Harry mumbled something.

"What was that?" Draco leaned over his lover's shoulder stopped his hands. "I couldn't hear you."

The brunet shivered and leaned back. Kissing the corner of his lover's jaw, he withdrew from the loose hug and tugged his shirt off.

Draco gripped his lover's hips and walked him backward. Harry hissed as his shoulders hit the coolness of the mirror on the inside of the door. "Really, Harry, what's so daunting about an empty house?"

His voice was teasing. Harry blushed and seemed to be looking at everything but the man before him. "I…I have a hard time sleeping without you, alright? And the bed felt so empty…"

Draco chuckled softly and cupped his lover's cheek. Raising Harry's face, he waited until those bright green eyes met his own. "Well," he whispered, "I think I can help with that."


	16. Polyjuice Professionals

title: Polyjuice Professionals  
author: newtypeshadow  
disclaimer: Harry Potter and its associated characters and settings are the property of J.K. Rowling.  
rating: PG-13  
warnings: implied sex, language  
summary: An extra special customer needs to get Malfoy out of his system.

* * *

"We have an extra special customer coming in a month," the Mother intoned gravely. "He wants four hours. That's four _thousand_ galleons, boys."

There were appreciative whistles around the room. Even Blaise perked up from his sprawl across a plush red couch. "What's the catch?" There was always a catch.

The Mother pursed her lips. "He wants Draco Malfoy."

The staff of Polyjuice Professionals erupted. The Mother shushed them. "I realize Draco Malfoy has never agreed to part with a single precious hair on his head for us—" She smirked at the scattered chuckles. "But this is where I think the rest of you come in. This customer _will_ come in exactly one month. Whoever gets Malfoy's hair first—gets him."

Conversations and declarations immediately sprung up, but Blaise just lay back and closed his eyes. Inside, he was smiling. He had an ace up his sleeve, and it was decidedly green.

* * *

"Please, Draco. I will give you _half_ and all of the details if you do this for me."

"Half?"

"That's my final offer."

"Yes, and paying me at all turns me into a prostitute." Draco's pale face was larger than life in Blaise's fire, and so was his disgust with the idea. "I still don't know why you're doing this at all. You're almost as rich as I am."

Blaise simply grinned. "I like to fuck, Draco. Here I get paid for it."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Yes, and some of your customers are downright disgusting."

"And some of them…really wouldn't have to pay me."

The blond shook his head. "More than I want to know." His companion laughed. "Anyway, who is this bigshot? If he's willing to waste four thousand galleons for a roll in the sack, he's probably extremely rich and extremely ugly."

"Maybe not. I do know he's extremely secretive. Only the person who tricks him will know his identity, and we have to sign a contract beforehand never to speak of it."

"Then how can you tell me?"

Blaise raised a perfectly manicured black eyebrow, opened his mouth, and…closed it again.

"What I thought. I'm not going to do it, Blaise."

Blaise scowled. "Don't make me do this, Draco."

"Do what?"

"Tell Potter."

Draco's eyes went wide, then shuttered. "You wouldn't."

"For four thousand galleons, I just might."

"Blaise."

"Draco."

"…fucking Slytherins."

"So you'll do it?"

A pause. "Yes, but you owe me."

Blaise nearly crowed with delight.

* * *

"You'll never believe who it was."

Blaise had flooed over the moment the customer left. He now sat in the foyer of Malfoy Manor across from the man his face was slowly changing back from. He had remembered to throw on a robe before he left, but hadn't done much else. He was still basking in the afterglow of one of the best bottoms he'd ever fucked.

"Who was it?" Draco was trying to sound bored, but wasn't succeeding. He was also trying not to wince at Blaise's flippant state of undress on one of the most expensive couches in his house.

"First," Blaise leaned forward, "let me tell you this. He let me try…pretty much everything."

"Really. But who was it?"

"And he's a bottom, which was surprising, but goes perfectly with you—"

"You're _not_ trying to set me up with one of your customers."

"He's never gone to anyone before, actually." A house elf appeared with a tray full of tea and scones. Blaise reached for a pastry before the tray was even on the table. "I'm starved." The scone was gone before Draco could comment. "It was really good."

"To what are you referring?" His voice was snide.

"Oh, the sex, of course. Not that you shouldn't have a scone, they're good too, but—"

"Just tell me who the bloody fuck it was, Blaise, I don't want or need the details." He ran a hand through his shoulder length hair and let it fall roughly into his lap. "_I_ feel like the prostitute."

"Sex worker."

"Whatever. What aren't you telling me?"

Blaise grinned. "Guess who said he needed to, and I quote, 'Get Malfoy out of my system'?"

* * *

"So," drawled a familiar voice close to his ear, "I heard this week the great Harry Potter spent four thousand galleons just to get bent."

Harry felt the blood leave his face. He turned as if in a daze. Malfoy's beautiful, horrible face was smirking at him over robes that matched his stormy eyes and a drink red as the blood Harry knew was rushing to a very bad place.

"Walk with me," Malfoy's red lips said. It wasn't a request.

They ambled outside without exchanging another word. It took a bit to maneuver around the throngs of people in the ballroom, each wanting a piece of the Boy Who Killed Voldemort and the Order's favorite spy, but eventually they reached a veranda deserted enough to speak privately.

By then, Harry had regained his senses. At least, he had until Malfoy's grey-blue eyes met his. "Did you have fun at Polyjuice Professionals?"

"I—excuse me?"

A dark light shone in Malfoy's eyes. "It's a simple question, Potter. Or are you too turned on even to answer those?"

Before he knew it Malfoy had backed him up against the building wall. Light from the ball illuminated Malfoy's face, but Harry was sure no one inside could see what the blond was doing. Harry reached for his wand. Suddenly both his hands were trapped in place by cold fingers. Malfoy's body was pressed flush against his, robe to robe, chest to chest, groin to—_oh_—groin. At the first rock Harry momentarily lost all semblance of thought. He stared with glazing eyes at the gardens off the veranda, unconsciously dipped his head into Malfoy's neck and breathed deeply. A warm, slick tongue heralded a warm, full mouth, and Harry's earlobe was Malfoy's and so were the shudders he couldn't suppress. Malfoy released his earlobe and breathed into Harry's neck.

Harry tried to speak. "W-what ah—are you do-oing?"

Malfoy chuckled, still rocking into the dazed man's hips. "I should think it obvious by now. Oh," almost as an afterthought, "a word to the wise: you _never_ get a Malfoy out of your system." Harry froze. Malfoy slid his cheek across Harry's until they were face to face, lips millimeters apart. Harry forced himself not to close that tantalizing distance, not to breathe in as Malfoy exhaled. "So don't try."

The rush of cold air as Malfoy separated their bodies was like a bucket of ice water. With an unsubtle brush of his hand across Harry's…privates, Malfoy smirked and left.

Harry was not so fortunate. It took aching minutes for the hardness under his robes to go down enough not to be obvious. When he skulked back into the ballroom, Malfoy was by the double doors. The Slytherin raised an eyebrow at him across the room as if to say, "Are you coming?"

Harry ducked his head, blush staining his cheeks, but hurried after all the same.

* * *

notes: I was going to write bits of the Blaise-Malfoy/Harry scene, but thought better of it. now I'm not so sure. 


	17. soul scream

title: soul scream  
author: newtypeshadow  
disclaimer: Harry Potter and associated characters and settings are the property of J.K. Rowling.  
rating: PG  
summary: The story begins with Harry on a balcony.

* * *

The story begins with Harry on a balcony, leaning on the railing, hands dangling over the side. It is dark, past twilight but not yet the deep blue of night. His black hair ruffles slightly in the breeze. His eyes stare out over the lights of the marina. He is in a grey sweatshirt with no logos, no message. His jeans are faded, ripped in one knee. His bare feet blend into the white stone. The city lights are trapped in his glasses. They turn his eyes into stars. 

One would guess he is waiting for something.

Our story jumps to a blond man with aristocratic features and clothing to match. His name is Draco Malfoy. On the witness stand he speaks clearly and succinctly on the subject of murder, Marks, and mudbloods. About Harry Potter he will say nothing, but his eyes cloud briefly and the corners of his mouth twitch suspiciously.

The scene shifts to Malfoy alone in a stone cell devoid of cot or sink or drain. He stands proudly, but under his robe his knees are shaking. A figure drifts in, a dark, hooded specter in a tattered black robe. It stinks of death, despair, the desire to spread its disease of emptiness. The door shuts behind it. The heavy lock clangs against the iron bars. Through them are witnesses with the air of spectators at a blood sport. They are silent and smug. They are waiting for the inevitable.

Draco Malfoy squares his shoulders and reaches out. He does not like waiting for anything.

The story ends again with Harry. A tear slides down his cheek. He goes inside, checks the hotel clock. Collapses onto his bed, muffles his face in the pillow, and wails like a man who is screaming out his soul.


	18. I do

title: "I do."  
author: newtypeshadow  
disclaimer: Harry Potter and associated characters and settings are the property of J.K. Rowling.  
rating: PG-13 (sexuality)  
notes: written while listening to Placebo's "Twenty Years" and "Every You, Every Me".

* * *

The preparations have been ready for months. Flowers cover every available surface. The bridesmaids are in peach, the bride in purest white, though he hasn't seen her yet. His best man claps him on the shoulder reassuringly before heading out the double doors to get into place. "She's beautiful," he says on his way out. 

_Harry's eyes are greener than the emerald on the necklace he wears around his neck—one of many such gifts Harry accepts with hesitation but treasures doggedly. His skin is golden and supple, his thighs inviting as he raises his knees and spreads himself over the green silk sheets, invitation in more than his smile._

A knock on the door startles him. He blinks, the vision gone, and stands to greet the usher who has come to get him. The ceremony is about to begin.

Draco takes his place before the stone faced priest dressed in solemn black. He holds a bible in his leathery hands. Its cover is the red of crusted blood. Draco wonders if his bride-to-be has ever seen war firsthand. He realizes she hasn't.

_Smoke and ash cloud the air. Burnt bodies litter the ground. Draco's feet squelch in the bloody grass. Ahead of him, Harry's body sways in the dead air. His wand is still gripped in a white fist. Glasses broken and blackened in patches, face streaked in tears, blood, dirt, the savior of the wizarding world looks more defeated than the body at his feet. _

_When he falls, Draco is there to catch him. As his eyes close, Harry reaches up and smiles. _

Music snaps Draco out of the memory. He finds that his eyes rest squarely on his godfather. The professor's eyes are narrowed. He shakes his head minutely. Draco frowns a question, but it is not to be answered; Severus is blocked by the tall man in front of him as the witnesses stand to watch the bride enter the sanctuary. The bride's mother smiles proudly at her as she glides down the aisle. Her father walks with dignity beside her.

She arrives at Draco's side in slow motion, a wash of virginal white and veiled identity. Draco is in tailored black robes, face well known and bared for the world. He feels acutely the differences between them. He lifts off her veil, but cannot look into her eyes. They turn to the priest.

_Harry had been a virgin when they had sex for the first time. Draco had been gentle with him, had wondered that someone with so much fame and wealth had so little experience. He surprised himself with his desire to make it the best that it could be, to erase the miniscule kisses and gropes that Harry had experienced before him from his memory, from his body memory. He drove himself to distraction pulling sounds from Harry, who breathed his screams and shuddered his pleas. He shivered, he ached, he felt hollow and full when he leaned over Harry's body, not quite touching, and let their breath mingle together in the quiet night. _

_When it was done he laughed and kissed Harry for all he was worth. There was nothing else he could do. He was exploding on the inside, and nothing but Harry could hold the licking flames at bay._

He puts the ring on her finger in a daze. For some reason, his hand is steady when her soft hands slide the gold band onto his own. His hand feels infinitely heavier when he lets it fall. She takes it up again with a giggle.

"Do you," the priest is saying to her, a long speech about having and holding,

_His arms around Harry, front to back, swinging him around in the rose garden at the Manor_

for richer or poorer

_"I'll be disowned if I don't," Draco said. Harry was standing in the window, naught but a silhouette. His head hung down, but his expression was hidden by the halo round his body. "I could lose the Manor." _

_"You could lose a lot more than that." _

_"Harry, this doesn't have to change anything." _

_Harry looked up. His glasses glinted in the light, but still his eyes were hidden. "Don't be naïve. It doesn't become you."_

sickness and health

_He sat vigil at St. Mungos for four days before Harry opened his eyes. Draco was reading aloud to him—drivel from the Daily Prophet this time. He wasn't sure it was the sort of thing that Harry would appreciate waking up to, but perhaps it would piss him off enough to wake from the unexplainable coma he'd fallen into after his grand showdown. _

_The first thing he heard was a horrible choking sound. The second thing he heard was a grunt of pain. Looking up from his paper, Draco saw Harry's eyes clenched. Black goo was dripping from the scar on his forehead. Draco shouted for a mediwitch and tried to wipe the liquid from Harry's forehead with his sleeve. When it touched the fabric it ate straight through. _

_Draco pulled his cloak off the chair and pressed it to Harry's scar, trying to soak up the liquid before it dripped below Harry's eyebrow. Harry started screaming. _

_Medics rushed in and shoved Draco out of the way._

as long as they both lived.

_The door shut behind him with a finality he didn't want to feel. Draco immediately Apparated back to Malfoy Manor. He signed the missive from his lawyer agreeing to the wedding. He stared into the gardens from his window well into dark. He wondered what Harry was doing. He wondered at sharing this room with another. A house elf appeared carrying one of Harry's muggle shirts. _

_"Leave that," Draco said, stretching out his hand. "Pack the rest and send it to the Hollow." _

She says "I do."

The priest turns to Draco. "Do you, Draco Lucien Malfoy, take this woman—" her name doesn't matter. None of this matters, not really. Nothing but the money Draco will keep and the Manor that he was born in, born in the sun room on what his mother always said was the happiest day of her life. He wonders if the day this woman has a child will be the happiest day of his life. He'll finally have someone to pour his wealth into, pour himself into, share his dreams and his joys and his plans for the future.

Someone to replace Harry.

"Do you?"

Draco finally looks at his bride. Her face is girlish and cute, her nose pert, her lips glossed and full. And her eyes…

_Emerald_

are cold. Barely concealed glee lurks in their grey depths. She nods slightly, impatient.

_Harry smiled widely and dove onto the bed. He landed on Draco and shook him. Draco glared at him, spat and hissed, but when Harry finally pulled him out of bed at four in the bloody A.M. he was smiling widely too._

Draco drops her hand. He ignores the gasps, ignores the shouts, doesn't speak a word to anyone as he strides quickly out of the church and Apparates in full view of the busy street.

He appears outside the wards at the gate of Godric's Hollow. The black bars are unwelcoming, but they recognize him all the same and let him through. Draco races up the walk, picking up speed as he nears the house. As he runs he rips the ring from his finger, lets it fall somewhere along the path up to the cozy manse Harry calls home.

Drums are beating in his chest. Draco feels again like he is exploding within himself, breaking out of his skin and becoming impossibly large. He waves a desperate hand and the front door slams open before him. A figure comes running into the foyer. It is Harry. His face is wondering, shocked, when Draco nears him.

There are three steps up to the door. Draco launches himself over them and hits the threshold at full speed. And then Harry is right in front of him. Draco opens his arms and crushes the stunned man to his chest. They stumble backward and fall, Draco twisting to take the brunt of it, and Harry's face is inches from his, Harry's smile centimeters from his, Harry's lips full on his, and Draco's body is singing "fuck it all—I do."


End file.
